So I got one of those “fitness bands” on Friday.
It all started with my 9-year-old daughter—she wanted one to track her steps for her birthday, because she’s going to grow up to be one of those annoyingly perfect women who are always on top of things, unlike me. After I bought her a child’s version of a fitness band, I discovered that they made a grownup version too, and thought, “What the hell? Why not?” because it was a “wellness tracker” and not an actual “I want to lose weight” kind of tracker, and I can do “wellness,” I think. I think.
My first mistake was starting to wear it on the weekend. And not just any weekend—a weekend in which I would be spending the majority of my time driving (from Houston to Austin and back), sitting, and eating. The first thing my fitness band did when I woke up on Saturday at 8 am was buzz and flash, “Move!” across its screen as I was sitting on the toilet, peeing. And I muttered, “What the fuck, I’m sitting on the toilet, bitch,” so it buzzed at me again. “MOVE!” Then my heart rate went up and it was all like, “Too much activity,” and I almost flushed it down the toilet right then, but I managed to stop myself.
I had to give the thing a chance, right?
It pretty much couldn’t hide its contempt for me the entire weekend. I’m surprised it didn’t say, “Please remove band from BBQ-gorging corpse and place it on a breathing human being that actually wants to live past age 40.” It was, however, a great measure of things that completely and utterly pissed me off or stressed me out: It would alert me when my heart rate went too high. Which was every time someone said something that irritated me. Which was, like, every hour.
I’m not sure this relationship is going to work out. I’m willing to give it a go this week, really I am. But I’m not optimistic. The little bitch is likely going back to Best Buy, I’m just sayin.